“I completely understand. I won’t keep you. I just hope she’s doing all right. She was such a sweet kid.”
I bite my lip. “She’s adjusted just fine.”
“We were sad when she left so suddenly. But selfishly, I’m happy she left when she did. Our school has had a difficult year, and it’s not getting any easier.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s been traumatic for our students. Zoey really stepped up. I thought it would make for an empowering piece in her admissions essays, but if you’ve already put away the file—”
“Traumatic how?” I cut her off, my interest in the conversation renewed. “I could always make a note and revisit it later.”
“That’s why it’s taken me so long to get back to you.” As she speaks, I imagine a Virginia version of Pam, scrambling around the school trying to sort everyone’s schedules and problems.
“You said Zoey helped. In what way?”
She breathes heavily. “This fall, we had a student go missing. A sophomore. I hate to say it, but it’s not uncommon around here to have runaways. Our district isn’t as upscale as Victory Hills.” She laughs. “Anyway, Zoey was very close to her. She was one of several people who volunteered to be a peer counselor for students having a difficult time dealing with the disappearance.”
“Sounds just like her,” I say, hoping she won’t sense the sarcasm.
“Anyway, a part of me is glad she wasn’t here when the news broke. She’d probably be seeking counseling herself.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Did you find her?”
“They found her body two weeks ago,” she says. “She’d been out there a long time. Looks like she’d been stabbed…”
I drop the phone. I get off the couch, stumble to the living room desk and open my laptop. I hurriedly type in the words Virginia Valley High School. That’s all I’ll need to find out the rest of the story.
Every article is about her. The girl. Abigail Morrison, 15. Her body was found in a rock quarry, a local hangout for rowdy teens. She had died from multiple lacerations to her body; the fatal wound was inflicted on her right thigh.
I scream in horror. It’s just like last time. The crime is different, and the names are different. But I was right. I didn’t want to be, even though it validates everything I’ve felt these past several weeks. I’d been trying so hard to stop Zoey from doing something horrible. I didn’t realize I was already too late.
After what feels like forever, I stop crying. I click through a few more articles, trying to grasp the situation. I flick through a gallery of photos featuring Abigail Morrison. Over a decade ago, when I was in this same situation, scrolling through pictures, there weren’t many. Each victim had two or three photos available, all provided by family members when they still believed there was hope.
There must be close to a hundred photos of Abigail Morrison. It’s the culture these days. Taking selfies and posting to social media as often as possible. My students snap their own image multiple times a day, sending the pics to friends or uploading for others to see. They never imagine the pictures with the goofy facial expressions and vibrant eye shadow might one day be posted on a website announcing they’ve gone missing. Or worse, that their body has been found.
Abigail Morrison didn’t know that. And yet here she is with her haunting green eyes and vibrant red hair. It’s curly in most photos, but in some it’s straight. She looks happy, happiest when in a photo with friends. That’s probably all she wanted: people to like her, to connect with someone. Unfortunately, that someone ended up being Zoey, and her beautiful smile was ripped from this world.
I look closer at one picture. She’s wearing a formal dress; it could even be her high school’s take on Spring Fling. The same event where Darcy Moore was attacked. Had the police interrupted Zoey that night? Is that why Darcy didn’t end up like Abigail?
I look closer at the picture. Abigail is wearing a green dress that seems to radiate against her pale skin. Her red curls are pinned high on top of her head, and she’s picked the perfect shade of lip color to complement her look. Around her neck I see something… familiar. Something I know I’ve seen before. I click through more of the pictures, making sure this isn’t just a one-off, my mind playing tricks on me. It’s not. I stand, grab my keys and run to my car. I think I’ve finally found the evidence I need.
Forty-Five
Now
I knock on the curved door guarding the Moore residence. There’s no telling who might answer. It’s only the first day of summer, and while Darcy was likely the only person at Victory Hills more eager for a break than I was, I have no way of knowing her plans.
I sigh in relief when she opens the door.
“Mrs. Mayfair?” she asks, her head cocked to the side. I’m sure she’s not used to receiving visits from her teachers, apart from Pam. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to show up like this. I really need to ask you something.” I offer a smile. Darcy isn’t wearing any makeup, but her face is red. “Darcy, are you okay?”
“Come inside.” We walk through the foyer into the living room. My house is considered upscale, but this place could qualify as a McMansion. The foyer floor is marble, and the living room carpet feels thick under my feet. There’s a large fireplace in the room, one that seems to be double-sided, so it can be enjoyed from the outside as well. Above the fireplace are two large portraits: her older brother in his college football uniform and Darcy wearing a formal dress. She sits in a cushioned armchair, which almost seems to swallow her small frame.
“I figured you came by because you heard the news,” she says, pointing toward the sofa,
